Ink·Heart·Serrations

Ink·Heart·Serrations

She suffers,
& I am useless,
incapable of soothing
her pain,
her profound loss,
her unrelievable grief!

How can she 
grieve
when her Love 
is not dead,
merely trapped
in a dungeon—
his own devise—
his demise
a concoction of poor choices,
arrogance & ego,
deep insecurity
masked as toxic
machismo?

Her Love is undead,
the great black wight,
barely a whisper
haunting
the collapsing
hallways of her heart,
& I can only bear
witness 
because I must hide
my own love, lest
in my selfish want
of her she feels 
smothered,
deprived 
of the space 
she needs to mourn.

¿What, because I dream
of my every morning
dawning with her 
in silhouette,
a shadow
against every
subversive sunrise?

& so we all suffer,
all of our hearts
incarcerated—
his imprisoned
within walls
of iron & concrete,
hers imprisoned
under the weight
of loss & absence,
mine behind
a loneliness
only she can cure 
& a foreboding fear
of losing her
forever—
all held 
in solitary,
confined
to the empty 
wastelands of our souls,
where hope 
can only be measured
by the pinpricks
of light that linger:
the imperfect promises
of love deferred. 

Word Pimp Slap

 

I should begin by stating unequivocally that I do not advocate nor endorse unwarranted violence. On the contrary, & much to the constant chagrin of my own children, I abide by more of a "turn the other cheek" philosophy, seeing violent retaliation as akin to allowing someone else to drag me down to their level. 

Okay, now that that's out of the way, yes, the one time I met Chris Rock I was sorely tempted to smack the shit out of him just like Will Smith did during the recent Academy Awards Show. Let me explain.

In the summer of 2002, I was running a Ritz Camera near the Inner Harbor in Baltimore. Mr Rock was in town shooting Head of State. I wasn't aware he was even in town until he walked into the store, entourage in tow. I barely had time to look up from what I had been doing before his excessively salty language reached my ears. I think he was on the back end of a "motherfucker."

I was amused, but far from starstruck. If you worked anywhere near Baltimore's Inner Harbor in its heyday, you were bound to meet more than your fair share of celebrities. I'd sold everything from camera film to point & shoots to professional equipment to several Orioles, Ravens, Olympians, comedians, television & film actors... I even closed my store to allow Katt Williams a brief respite from being hounded by fans during the height of his popularity. I don't get starstruck, also to the chagrin of my children who would constantly bemoan my refusal to collect autographs when I would get home from work with news of one of my celebrity interactions.

My amusement at seeing Chris Rock in my store was cut short. I had assumed that once he reached my counter, his performance for his buddies—& that's exactly what it was, an unceasing attempt to keep his retinue in stitches—would end so we could get down to business. I couldn't have been more wrong.

Mr. Rock was in the market for a digital camera, his first. I began qualifying him as I would any other customer, trying to pin down his experience level, his price range, etc.; but it was all an uphill slog as nearly every question, every response, every suggestion was met with his expletive laden, mostly unfunny (except to his friends, & even there, some of the laughter was forced) running commentary.

Now, anyone who has read my work knows I'm not averse to foul language. I believe all words serve a purpose, & the use of such words has its place. But I also believe, as many of my writing instructors have tried to relay, that when it comes to expletives, a little goes a long way, & a lot can ruin what might have been a good thing. Despite feeling annoyed at his vulgar banter, I wasn't going to let that get in the way of a camera sale. However, at a certain point, this was no longer about me. It was about Barb, the lady who processed film & printed photos in my lab.

For those of you old enough to remember Ritz Camera, before digital photography took over the world & the market, all stores had equipment that allowed us to produce perfect pictures in an hour from 35mm film. Processing machines were placed front & center, allowing customers to see the work in progress. It also kept our lab staff close enough to see & hear everything going on in the store. That day, the person running the lab was a middle aged woman who was devoutly religious & very sensitive to that type of language.

Sure enough, after he had dropped enough f-bombs to make even me queasy, I looked back to check on Barb. She was mortified. She was hunched over in her chair, her face beet red, as she tried to focus on printing the roll of film in front of her. I quickly dismissed any thought of asking him to tone it down. That had the possibility of backfiring, regardless of how politely & respectfully I asked. Losing a much needed sale was not an option. As I saw it, my only choice was to rush through the process, to get this foul-mouthed comic who could not for one moment stop the “Chris Rock Show” he was performing just for his friends out of my store—easier said than done.

Everything I did had to be filtered through his pointless flurry of commentary & asides. With each one, I looked back at Barb, part of me hoping he would notice what I was looking at, a flustered woman who was now flush, beads of sweat gathering on her forehead. It was at that point that I admit the thought crossed my mind: if this motherfucker doesn't shut his filthy fucking mouth, I'm going to reach across this counter and slap some sense into him. I'm not ashamed to admit it. I have violent thoughts like just about everyone else. Thoughts are not actions, not until we will them so.

I just wanted a way to snap him back to reality, to find his off switch, to make him realize that there were other considerations besides his own ego. Of course, I thought better of it. It wasn’t worth risking the sale, my job, even a lawsuit or potential imprisonment. In my experience, it rarely is. I suppressed my emotions & carried on.

Fortunately, I was eventually able to rush him out of the store, without the aforementioned pimp slap. I got him set up with enough batteries & memory to start taking pictures immediately & for quite some time thereafter. I didn't want him back. I didn't even bother discussing the repair plan, a Ritz required ask for every equipment purchase. That would only have prolonged his stay, & Barb's discomfort was bleeding over to me as my armpits had begun pouring sweat. Besides, I was perfectly sure he could afford to replace his camera if he broke it. Everything was focused on getting him & his crew out of my store as soon as humanly possible.

Once they were finally gone, I checked on Barb. "You okay?" The color had begun coming back to her face, but she was still having a hard time forming words. I told her to finish the roll she was working on & take a break, go for a walk, get some fresh air. When she got back & we finally got the opportunity to discuss it, I found out she didn't even know who Chris Rock was. She had not watched Saturday Night Live, the show where Rock had made his bones, in years, considering it too risque for her tastes.

"Why would anyone talk like that?" she asked me. The only reply I had for her is that despite him usually being a brilliant, generally hilarious comedian, it was obvious he was showing off for his friends. I let her know that he had failed at one of the basic rules of performing: don't get so caught up in your performance that you forget to read your audience. I’ve made that mistake myself plenty of times.

So when I saw what happened between Will Smith & Chris Rock, I got it. I immediately remembered, quite vividly, when I was but one poor judgment away from making the same mistake. …& it was a mistake. Will could have opted to let it go, or save it for a private moment. Hell, he could've waited until an after party to avoid forcing the show's production staff's scramble to censor the f-bombs he dropped during the live broadcast.

It would've become little more than post-show tabloid fodder instead of tarnishing the award he won for Best Actor about forty minutes after the slap heard around the world. He is, after all, only the fifth black male to win that award.

It's a shame, really. As hard as it is to be a positive figure as a person of color in this country, both men, amazing & experienced performers in their own rights, seemed to have simultaneously forgotten that aforementioned cardinal rule: never get so caught up in what you're thinking, feeling, or doing that you neglect to read your audience.

Now, I’m not here to take sides. There’s a lot of Team Chris versus Team Will talk going around. Some feel the Academy should go as far as taking Smith’s Oscar away & banning him for life. Some folx feel that it was Rock who went a step too far by making a joke at Jada Pinkett Smith's expense either unaware or not caring about her battle with alopecia. Whatever the fallout is, it’s not up to me. At the time of this writing, Smith has resigned from the Academy of Motion Pictures & Sciences. His resignation does not seem to have abated any disciplinary action being considered by the Academy.

Rock seems to be coming out the hero in this instance, having handled the smack like a champ, not allowing it to impact his performance on stage, once he got past the initial shock of being bitch slapped in front of the whole world. Rock also refused to file charges, which I find not only classy in a sense, but spared everyone the indignation of having to watch another black man being taken down & arrested, this time live, in front of a global audience.

There’s plenty of blame (& praise) to go around, but none of that changes the real fallout of this incident: for those who already give in to the trope of the “angry black man"—that being black & male is enough to rationalize the level of fear that justifies violence, even murder—those irrational fears have only been reinforced. Outside of those who are lining up behind Team Chris or Team Will, those who abhor violence in any form, & those who define a man by how he stands up & defends those he loves, we cannot lose site of those for whom this was just another example of why people of color are inferior, unworthy of universal respect.

…& therein lies the saddest part of this entire fiasco—while some of us are busy trying to figure out who the winners & losers are coming out of this incident, they perhaps are not thinking that actually, there were no winners. Despite the fact that the joke that went too far & the unwarranted violence that followed were about as human as human can get, there are far too many folx out there who will use it as more reason to continue considering people of color as less than human. Looked at through that lens, haven’t we all lost?

Looking for Loosies

“Anybody got a loose one?!”

On the subway platform, waiting for the train at Mondawmin, his tortured voice cuts through the typical murmurs that bleed over the mechanical silence.

“Loose ones! Looking for loose ones. Anybody got a loose one?”

The call is just short of desperate. Granted, he’s still high enough to not sound desperate, yet.

One murmur becomes clearly audible. “Damn, they out late tonight.”

There is no they, just one lone addict coming off his fix & looking to feed a different craving: tobacco. They is a pejorative here. The addict is relegated to subhuman standards, not worthy of being an individual. Everyone knows what he wants. No one offers.

If you live close enough to Lexington Market, near downtown Baltimore, close enough to find yourself there often, you learn the lingo. If you wait for a bus on the corner of Howard & Saratoga enough times, you will inevitably be asked if you want to buy a loosie or have one to sell.

You may be confused, at first, but when you finally see someone pop a cigarette out of a pack & exchange it for a few coins, it all becomes clear. Microeconomics. The soft sell of a sole cigarette.

“Anybody got a looose one?!”

Now he was becoming more desperate. He had already made a lap of the platform, and with no luck, his call had transformed into a chant, an uncomfortable one with such energy, I could sense everyone one on the platform recoil, gather tighter, try to shield themselves from the discordance.

“Loose ones! Looking for loose ones! Anybody got a looose one?”

I’m no better. As he approaches me, I try to avert his gaze. I’m not trying to interact. I have my earbuds on, playing nothing—my shield against the world. But I also know better than to be completely unguarded. I observe him peripherally, notice the staggering cadence of his walk, his gray, unkempt crop. He looks old, but addicts can be deceiving. You never really know if one is old, or just prematurely aged from constantly poisoning himself. He looks old, but mostly, he just looks hollow, like his soul has been eaten away, leaving nothing but a drying husk.

Shit! He’s looking at me. Betrayed by my curiosity, I’ve inadvertently made eye contact. I don’t know if I can handle this energy, now. I’ve just spent the past couple of hours consulting an old friend, being the ear she needed, offering a shoulder and a bit of hope. I’ve had my fill of desperation for the day. Any more could be wounding, leave me so raw that I’ll spend the next few days in self-induced solitary, hiding from the world in a bed I’ll be unable to sleep in, just toss, pretending sleep will come, eventually.

“Loose one?” he asks. Even his eyes are hollow, his gaze dying, not dead, not yet.

I take a deep breath to steel myself. Before I can let it out, I hear someone say, “Hey brother, how’s it going?” in a soothing baritone. An officer had made his way to the platform, had reached the man. There’s no acrimony. There’s no aggression. Just brother, from an MTA police officer whose build was as daunting as his voice.

“Hello, officer. I obey the law, officer. I respect the law. I’m just looking for a loose one.”

“That’s fine,” the officer says, “but I don’t think you’re going to find one here. You might have better luck somewhere else.”

By this point, they’re both past me, the officer is herding the man towards the up escalator, his broad shoulders dwarfing the small, broken man. They continue in now inaudible conversation. The rest of the platform finally loosens up as the desperate energy dissipates, like lungs after a fit of coughing. Everyone is free from having to face their reflections in the eyes of a hollowed one. We all have hollows & hate to be reminded how close we are to becoming completely, tragically empty, looking for our own loosies in a world that has none to offer.

Oyá

Oyá

"Your son was blessed 

with life, but it comes 

at a price. The rabbit,
who's throat you sliced
open in my graveyard, 

my temple,
is not enough 

for this child,"
came the words
from my ten
year-old mouth—
not my words.

"Your child was mine,
is mine,
has always been
mine.
He is on loan
at my discretion,
Eternally returnable to
sender, & it pains me
every day I am
without him."

I was there, but I wasn't—
lost beneath the weight
of Puerto Rican rum
& Dominican cigar
& Oyá, orisha of the dead,
Original Mother.

"He will live,
but you will not,"
dragged dread
through my heart as
my mouth continued
to spout another's
Words. ¡Yet, I could not
stop! "I will leave him
here, for now,
for the world to use
his gifts a while
longer, but know this:
I will take each & every
one of you instead."

I realized then
that loving me
is a death sentence
no words
could ever 

complete.

Petulance

"What does that mean?" she asks 

as the big heads on the tube

analyze the blood sport 

that has replaced the corpse 

of politics. 

"Petulant?" I reply, called into duty, 

called to defend my pride,

"Bratty, simply put—acting spoiled 

& privileged." 

"& how do you spell it?" 

I bristle at the challenge; 

is that doubt, or a test; 

but 2020 has been nothing 

more than a riddle of doubt, 

a series of tests, of challenges; & I am under her

Spell. Powerless, 

I must comply. 

"P-E-T-U-L-E-N-T, petulent," 

I announce in my best 

bee boy B·boy voice, or the best I can offer 

high & drunk & brimming 

with Love, 

as I finally find the strength 

to look into the eyes 

I've avoided all night, for fear I might 

just blurt out everything I feel inside 

& risk moments 

like this one. 

We ride on borrowed time,

after all, live within a mirage,

a potemkin friendship

that must be dismantled

when the Shogun has found

his way back to the dojo,

relegating me to the discard pile—

a ronin ghost, serving none,

served by none, once again

lost in the lonely wilderness,

a sole sullen soul damned

to wander, aimlessly. 

"Alexa," she says, breaking 

the silence as awkward as a tiny

boy in a world made for bigger men,

"spell petulant." She doubts me. 

Fine. I doubt myself, perpetually,

even wondering if I should be here;

or if I'm simply a glutton

for self-caused suffering,

a dreamer who can never wake. 

"P-E-T-U-L-A-N-T" says Alexa

& I'm exposed; my flaws revealed

by a single vowel, clearly unveiling

my imperfections, my humaness.

We laugh at my error, at a word

pimp bested by artificial intelligence.

She reminds me of my claims,

that she's added to my vast vocabulary,

"Is that true, or just empty words?"

"There's no such thing!" I reply,

"Every word is pregnant with meaning,

even in the face of apparent emptiness."

Emptiness is it's own language.

"But to answer your question, I have mad

respect for your skills, language & other-

wise; you are undoubtedly my muse."

Of that, I could never lie.

I die

a little every time

I have to leave her.

I want nothing

less than to be petulant,

to cry,

to whine,

to tantrum,

to beat my fists against the sky,

to force this Jewel to shine

for me; but wisdom warns me

that would only lead to an end,

already near, the end I fear;

& I cannot risk any

of these precious, stolen moments;

knowing I will soon lose

this privilege is pain

enough. 

So, I remain composed for her,

for me, for peace, for sanity—

however feigned, for the next day

I find myself, unable to think,

to work, to do anything other

than catch her scent in the pilfered

hair band wrapped around my wrist,

breathing in these notes of nutmeg

& leather, not unlike last night's wine.

I am hopeless & sad & fucked

in so many ways, except...

"Remember, remember,"

I remind myself.

Time is a fickle cunt,

no telling what the future

holds—even the cards offer little

more than speculation, hope

for things that may never be. Best

not to think of it. Live

in these moments, as precious

as she is, as brilliant,

as rare.

As always, I hold faith in destiny;

but truth be told, I'd rather be holding

her...

Black Cork

Lost

in a sea
of normalcy,
surrounded
by nothing
but beige,
taupe. tan—
shitty mediocrity,
I swim
with basic
bitches
& watch
them drown
while I rise
above them all.

Missing the Blarney Stone

Missing the Blarney Stone

Sitting in the Blarney Stone

sipping draught cider—

a brief respite

from Pestilence

& Death's mad gallops,

dowsing fear with alcohol,

hoping to never hear

the trots of War

& Famine; & a glance

askance chances upon

Clíodhna, Celtic Venus,
Queen of Wails—

concealed in a corner,

disguised behind spectacles,

sipping ale from amber glass.

Dare I open my mouth,

risk making a fool

of myself as I trip

unglibly through the ragged

words of a hermit, no longer

used to the social protocols

of humans? This cloistered

life foisted upon me has left

me more perverse than versed,

lost in thoughts unshared,

unshareable;

yet, now

beguiled

I want to speak,

to delve

into what drives

such a goddess

to hide, unassuming,

in open corners.

I dare!

The words flow

out as easily as

the cider flows in,

doubtless due

to my proximity

to the Sidhe, She

who shared

the Stone in which

we all now hide:

the lost, the lonely,

the lovelorn,

all torn

by life's

callous cruelty,

or our own.

Crowded,

but we are alone

for a while,

as all else

broken fades,

save the occasional

offer of a sordid tale

or the reminisce

of cigarettes

as stale as the pick-up lines

with which they are proffered.

This is dangerous!

We live in dangerous times,

full of demons professing

to be saints, full

of killer crowns

that have made every kiss,

every touch,

even the act of sharing

breath taboo;

but that's all I want

to do, to steal

away with a goddess,

to learn,

to laugh,

to live,

to learn to laugh to live,

again—to love!

& that scares me,

& I don't know why.

I know I did not arrive

alone, & turn to see

my companion, asleep,

surrendered to the potions,

surrounded by empty

upturned

vials & chalices;

but no one lives

at the Blarney Stone,

we're all tourists,

friendly invaders

whom sooner than later

must free ourselves

from this spell,

this illusion of freedom—

every respite ends;

reality awaits—

so I gather my goodbyes,
my gear, & my somnambulist
friend to kiss
the darkened sky;
& as we wander back
from whence we came—
I'm struck
by the fact
that I forgot
to kiss
the Stone;
worse yet,
I missed my chance
to kiss the goddess
who gifted
it to us all.

I may not always be The Hermit,
but I am perpetually The Fool.